And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe; But even his mother shall uncharge the practice, And call it accident.

It was not what you would picture as a typical meeting with a naval officer. In fact, it was about as navy as an Abbott and Costello movie.

[…] St. Bede's at this period of its history was perhaps the poorest and most miserable parish in the East End of London. Close-packed, crushed by the buttressed height of the railway viaduct, rendered airless by huge walls of factories, it at once banished lively interest from a stranger's mind and left only a dull oppression of the spirit.

That ‘Paterson’s Curse’ produces some feed is undoubted, but it is a smothering, rough, coarse plant ... the vernacular name ‘Curse’ shows what many people think of it.